ETTA SHORE // D1

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INFORMATION

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BIOGRAPHY

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Once, a baby was born in the middle of night. Outside, the wind had taken it upon itself to tear at the very foundations of the world - rain pounded against the windows as though desperate to get inside. Pauses of complete darkness lapsed between blinding flashes of light as cracks ripped holes in the velvet fabric of the sky. Inside, everything was still. A new mother so young her cheeks still clung to the innocence of childhood parted her lips in a silent cry. At her side, her own mother wept. For this was the night that everything would change - the concealed pregnancy could no longer be hidden beneath billowing fabric and hushed words. Some secrets can only be kept for so long.

In a rush of lies and crying concealed by rolls of thunder, a tiny girl came into the world. She did not wail; her rosebud lips remained at rest, and her grey eyes never opened. As quickly as her life had begun, it ended. "What's wrong with her?" cried the young lady who had carried the infant for so many months. The older woman clutched the lifeless body to her chest and shook her head. The chord, once the scarlet kiss that fed life to the newest member of the family, had tangled around it's neck. Faintly blue and unseeing, the baby lay still. Darkness fell.


. . .



On the same night, a baby was born. The weather would calm for nobody, and inside a grand house in District One, two women sat around the flickering flame of a candle and prayed wordlessly that things would be alright. Their wishes varied - the sweet-faced expectant mother wanted nothing more than a healthy child, while her own mother was hoping for a miracle that would allow them to continue their prestigious life without the scandal her daughter's baby would surely bring them. A cry of pain went unheard as the unexpected bundle of joy came into the world.

Swiftly, the older of the two bent down and took the little girl into her arms, hurriedly untwisting the chord from around her neck. She cut it, and the howl of new life filled the room. The baby blinked - two wide eyes the same colour of the storm clouds outside the window. "It's a little girl," announced the Grandmother through stiff lips. Breathing heavily, relief thick in her stomach, the mother took her darling into her arms. "Her name is Ursula," she said, her words a hiss, a breath she could not catch. But within a moment, the baby had been taken from her again, a change of mind. Bundled tightly, a hurried apology was given and the infant was rushed from the room by the fearful eldest woman. This time, darkness did not fall, but Ursula's mother was told that it had.


. . .



The orphanage was cold, but the small child had no coat. She sat at a wooden table with her legs from dangling from the edge of the chair. Her tongue poked out in concentration, and she clutched a crayon in a chubby fist. Quiet and determined, she scribbled something unidentifiable and didn't bother herself with the other inhabitants of the community home. Even at three years old, Ursula didn't fit in. Perhaps it was because of this that her eyes grew large with surprise when a slender girl sat heavily down in the seat beside her and rested her elbows on the table. "I'm Ave," she said.

Ursula nodded, because she knew. Although reserved, she noticed things. Leaning in a little too close, the older girl squinted at Ursula's drawing, wondering if she should question what it was supposed to be. Deciding against it, she grinned. "Do you want to run away?" she asked. Ursula looked up, a little startled, and frowned. She didn't really want to run away. She wanted to finish her drawing. Seeing hesitation in the smaller girl's eyes, Ave grabbed her hand and pulled her down from the chair. "Come on, it'll be fun!" Reluctantly, Ursula nodded.

The toddler allowed herself to be dragged upstairs and into the room seven little girls shared. It was empty, the line of beds with tattered blankets neat and orderly. Ave climbed up enthusiastically; Ursula followed with dawdling feet and the unsteady balance of a toddler. The window opened with a rush of icy air, but it wasn't enough to deter the little girls from the adventure. Out onto the roof they climbed, first Ave and then Ursula, feeling the tiles beneath their feet. "We need to jump to the next building," called the blonde, brimming with confidence. Ursula bit her lip and wrapped her arms around her body, before picking up her feet and crossing the rooftop. As she did, a tile slipped beneath her foot, and her tiny body lost it's grip upon the unstable surface. She tumbled downwards. Darkness fell, at first an enemy, and then a friend.


. . .



It was a particularly frosty morning, and nobody had remembered to provide the smallest member of the community home with a jacket. Ursula was not one to complain, however, and she sat with her knees to her chest as she balanced on a chair that was a little too big for her. She looked carefully at the letters that named the crayon colour she clutched, but was unable to make out the word. Although generally a determined little girl, Ursula gave up her attempt at reading and continued her drawing. "My name is Ave," said a girl, clambering up onto the chair beside the tiny child and standing on it. She towered over the sitting Ursula, inspecting her crown of slightly ginger curls.

"I'm Ursula," said Ursula, not intimidated by the older girl who stood at twice her height and smirked slightly worryingly. "Let's run away," said Ave, and Ursula paused. Something was telling her not to follow her newfound friend, something dark and instinctive and fearful right in the pit of her stomach. She shook her head. "Come on, it'll be fun," declared the older child, and Ursula succumed. Her hands hot, she dragged her feet as she was pulled upward into the dormitory above.

As Ave unlocked the window, reaching upward on her tiptoes, Ursula felt as though she had been somewhere similar before. Somewhere uncertain, like a rocky ground where she knew only the path that lead to the jagged shoreline instead of to safety. The six-year-old disappeared out of the window and called to her, and with another glance over her shoulder Ursula stepped up onto the bed. It was then that the tiny girl felt cold hands around her waist that pulled her backwards, setting her on the ground with a resolute thud. "Ursula, what do you think you're doing?" cried an irritated voice as they turned to her. Darkness was evaded for the second time.


. . .



"Ettringite Shore," they told her, and the little girl who used to be Ursula was ushered into a room with too-white leather and too-clean walls. Unused to the sparkling air that everything gave off, she backed into a corner and waited there until her eyes had adjusted to the light. She wasn't afraid - simply comprehending, coming to terms with the brand new world. Only yesterday she had been an orphan, with grubby hands and holes in her clothes. Today, apparently, she was a little girl who ought to uphold the Shores name. This concerned her a little, but not much. At four years old, Etta was unafraid and curious - with no particular talent other than her astounding ability to forever find herself a little apart from the other children.

Rarely speaking and not easily distracted, the toddler had become an unsturdy little girl with knobbly knees and freckled cheeks. Always determined, always working slowly but surely towards what she wanted. Kind and generous, but reserved to the point of seclusion. A fine example of this, she crossed her legs and waited for something to happen. The current Games played loudly on the television - apparently many of the children aspired to be like the emerging Victor. Etta didn't see the appeal. After a long while, an older girl appeared with a bowl of nuts and a smile on her lips. "I'm Opal, do you want one?"

Etta didn't want one, but she didn't want to be impolite. Taking a nut in her hands, she nibbled at it, doing her best to blend back into the wall. She frowned as her lips began to tingle, an unpleasant feeling she'd never experienced before. Panic swept her as her throat tightened; her face quickly growing a deep and formidable purple. It was almost instant, the way her body stopped working - lungs struggled against a greater force to drag in lungfuls of air. Perhaps the family gathered around in shock and confusion, docotors might have been called. Etta didn't know. Darkness fell, again.


. . .



The wall was incredibly white. Etta squinted at it, picturing fairies dancing along it's seemingly endless skirting board. She did not smile, but she did not frown. At four years old, she already had developed the dark, wizened eyes of a much older child - those at the orphanage put it down to never having had parents. The adoption, they hoped, would do her no end of good. Earlier that morning, she'd packed up her things (a simple bag, a teddy bear, a toothbrush) and, clutching everything she owned in the world to her chest, followed her new mother to the sprawling mansion that was supposed to be home. This much, she understood. The rest of how she could go from not having parents to suddenly having an entire family confused her a little, but lots of things did.

She shook her head and allowed her eyes to linger on the television. Blood spilled in every direction, and she felt sick to her stomach. Watching was Etta's favourite game, however, and no matter how hard she tried she could never look away. They called her observant back at the community home. Here, they called her Ettringite. She didn't like it much, but she was far too polite to comment. A tall girl bent down beside the child, smiling widely. Her hair was in a simple braid - the kind that careers wear. Perhaps, Etta thought, I might be a Career, one day. It wasn't that she wanted to - she simply liked to explore the what-ifs of the future, the possibilities of the past.

"I'm Opal, do you want one?" The girls words were quick and startling to the bewildered new arrival. Etta did her best to return her smile. "I'm Ursula," she said, and glanced at the television one more time. A sword plunged with enthusiasm into the heart of another, and a sickening laugh echoed around the living room. Somebody cheered. Etta blinked. "No, you're Etta," Opal corrected her, and reached down to grab her hand and haul her upward onto the armchair beside her. She set the bowl of peanuts at her side and became transfixed by the maniacal tribute that lit up the room. Darkness was delayed yet again.


. . .



Etta squinted at the words on the page before her, and they swam a little. She had never been able to read quite as smoothly as the others - even now, at the age of nine, it took her weeks to slowly make her way through a book, trying to keep all the letters in order. Each and every time she reached an ending, she would smile and close the leather cover, proud of herself. Not today, though. Handfuls of herbs from the training center filled her pockets, and the book contained not a story but a recipe. (A recipe for disaster.) Slowly, she traced the letters with her finger, adding crushed leaves one by one until she had the perfect concoction.

She did not smile when she was done. She thought back to the years of being alone - constantly trying and rarely succeeding. The darkness in the pit of her stomach, the cruelty of the world around her. Bitter, useless, all of it. (And what of the parents who did not want her, the ones who gave her away?) She glanced at the poison she had brewed and shook her head. She couldn't cope it if wasn't strong enough, wasn't right. And when had anything she'd made ever been quite perfect? On an afterthought, she rummaged in the cupboard and produced a bottle of bleach her elder sister had used on her hair just weeks before. Into the cup it went, and into her stomach went that. Quickly, darkness fell.


. . .



Etta turned the ancient pages of her book and wondered how her sister could know so much about the plants she loved. The child could barely remember her fractions, despite the hours she spent hunched over her books in a fruitless attempt to become as quick-witted as the others. She tried, and they told her that was what mattered. That she always got there in the end. Etta wasn't convinced, but she kept on trying anyway, because it was in her nature. (She hadn't missed a single day of school in her life, even though she sat alone at lunch.)

The recipe was laid out before her, and the herbs were in her pockets, all ready. She carefully measured and mixed, pouring boiling water when she was instructed to do so and sniffing at her brew every couple of minutes. After a while, it was done, and with shaking fingers Etta lifted the mug. "Petal, Phena, Pyrite," she called, pouring another three mugs of her questionable tea. "It's time for the tea party." Laid out carefully on the table was everything they would need, and Etta beamed. She hoped that they would like it. Darkness was avoided once more.

. . .


Etta Shore lay in the garden, gazing up at the stars. She counted them, and as she did she also counted a thousand terrible fates that could befall her. Next, she thought of a thousand cures and sweet things and ways that perhaps horror could be avoided. She thought about how it might have been, if things had happened differently. For a moment, she considered what she might do if given the chance to live her life again.

Morning came, the light forever her friend.

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COMPLETE

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